Random Thoughts VII
by Ophium
Summary: A series of short stories, from the POV of various characters on the course of several moments of different episodes. From Haywire's POV, set during episode 1.17 Bluff.


Random thoughts: Patoshik

The Human Maze

_(Set during Bluff)_

There is a pattern to be found in just about anything you can think of.

There is a pattern on the floor that you walk by, made by the tiny cracks and dirt littering the floor; there is a pattern on the seat that you take, made by the interlined fibers of the tissue that covers it; there is a pattern on the sky above your head, made by the passing clouds that you had always thought to be random but really are not; there is a pattern in the way the birds fly by, a leader of the squadron that leads all others to paint ancient paths woven between the clouds.

Common people see them too, but they tend to dismiss it, confused by the elaborate final picture that these patterns often create, comforted by the idea that not everything is planned in advance, that some things remain random.

The nurse that comes to give my meds, the one with the extra large breast, walks in a specific pattern that I suspect not even she realizes. Two short steps, one foot dragging through the floor. Always the same cadence, no matter she's walking slow or… no, she never walks fast.

Tap, tap, sluuur, tap, tap, sluuur… gets kind of annoying when she walks too much back and forth.

The guard that comes to check our doors at night gives a nervous cough every time he passes through the door next to mine. One big cough to clear the lungs, two smaller ones, like after shocks, to clear the throat. Never knew why, not really interested. Maybe he should stop smoking or something.

The metallic bars on my cell's window play patterns with the sun as time goes by, a silent game of chest between light and shadow, criss-crossed on the floor of my cell. White, black, white, black, white, black, wall.

I guess that's why I was drawned to mathematic in the first place. I felt at home between the numbers and equations, organized ways to predict the patterns.

The voices inside my head obey to no pattern. They come and go, they talk all at once, they scream with no respect for order or my own thoughts. I hate them.

I gulp down my meds and wait for the voices to quiet down. I don't like what they say, I don't like the way they talk about me or how they mock me for being in here.

The crazy house.

The loony bin.

The wack shack.

How many different names can people come up with for the place where they hide those who are different from them? Better call them leprosy colonies, for those who have rotten brains instead of rotten flesh and leave aside all that nauseating condescendence.

The meds start to kick in and I lose myself in a world of my own, where soft violin music plays all day long and the landscape is as beautiful as an oil painting. No musical instrument can whine better than a violin.

My name was never an easy one to pronounce. My name, the only thing I got from my father… other than the bruises.

Patoshik. Sounds kind of Swedish. Or maybe Dutch. I wonder if I'm Dutch…

They never call me Patoshik, or even Charles. I whish they called me Charlie, because I loved Charlie Brown.

They always call me Haywire, and after awhile, I'm calling myself that too. Just another way of them calling me crazy.

I'm not crazy, but they don't seem to realize that.

I just see things diferently from them. I don't condemn them for not seeing things like I do so, who gave them the right to judge me and sentence me to a lesser life?

I can be a bit obessessed at times, I won't deny that. Because when I see the patterns, I cannot rest until I solve the puzzle behind each one of them. Because every pattern has a purpose and I always have to find out what the purpose is.

If I had chosen to understand the meaning of life instead of the purpose of the patterns, they would be calling me a philosopher, not a nut case.

The dean at the university called me a genius once. He couldn't see the patterns like I did, but he could understand me.

It's been two days since I last took my meds and the voices, even though I can't seem to shut them down, are all screaming the same thing now, like a choir from hell.

They're saying for me to stay away, to not break this pattern, or else I'm going to join them in hell.

But I can' stop now. I've solved the pattern, but as strange as that may sound, I wasn't able to see what the purpose was. But I know who can tell me.

I look at the face of the man that I have pressed against the wall and I tell him all that I remember about him. And I remember everything.

I remember about the way he would act guilty when I would catch him anywhere near the toilet in the middle of the night; I remember my missing toothpaste; I remember his elusive questions about getting out of prison; I remember the intrinsic drawings on his chest and back, angels, demons, pilgrims and damned souls leaping from his skin like they had a will of their own. And underneath it all, I remember the map, the pathway, the maze that seemed to lead to no where.

I remember my short stay in Gen Pop, and I remember how it was made shorter by him. I remember the pain when the guards dragged me away from normal people because he tricked them in to thinking that I was crazy.

He made me leave before I could figure out the pattern, before I could figure out the maze on his skin, because he knew that I would understand it eventually. And that made me wander why he was so afraid of that.

With his lungs closing in and his brain starting to lack proper oxigen suply, he loses his superiority pose and fear starts to seep in to his blue eyes. I can see myself reflected there, I can see myself as he is seeing me now. I look dangerous.

He can't call the guards right now, no air left for him to scream, and if I'm right about his reasons, he wouldn't call them anyway.

They said that I killed both my parents. I don't remember doing it, but then again I don't remember much about that day.

Right now, I'm glad that he thinks that I'm capable of murder, because other wise I would be just a crazy guy going haywire on him.

I had asked him once, but he wouldn't tell me. I told him about that one time when I crapped myself in high school, but he still wouldn't tell me his secret.

And now he comes to ask for my help. Before, I had to wait until he was asleep or in the showers, so that I could study the pattern with no interferences from clothing. Now he offers it willingly. And they call me nuts…

There too is a pattern, but his actions manage to be even more confusing than his tattoo. People don't interest me much; I like patterns much more, so his actions are of little consequence to me.

But he still doesn't want me to understand. He just wants me to remember, so that he can get the missing part of his pattern and leave me here, in the dark. I know better now.

I won't have that this time. No. Now I'm prepared.

I let him go when I see his eyes starting to glaze over and lose their focus.

If he passes out, he won't be able to tell me what is the purpose of the pattern and then I will have the tell the guards that he's not waking up and they won't believe me because it is really his fault but as he is dead he won't be able to tell them that…

I force myself to focus, because I don't want to be in here anymore and doing this may be my only chance of going outside ever again.

He tries to trick me again, leading me to think that what he wants isn't all that important, that the drawing he needs is just a hobby for him.

The second I show him the finished drawing we both know that he is lying and that he won't be able to deny it anymore. I watch as his breathe itches and his eyes grow larger, like a drowning man looking at a saving boat. He tries to hide his reactions, but I'm used to look for hidden things so I can read him as a book.

What ever it is that he has planned, the piece of paper that I have in my hands is the vital part that can either make or break the entire thing.

I make it clear to him that I've figured his game and that I want in. or better yet, that I want out, out of here, just like he's planning.

And now that he's had a taste of angry me, I throw in a threat to make sure that he doesn't try to trick me again.

Because last time I was the one who got hurt and got threw back with the rest of the crazies. This time he'll get hurt for real if he tries to trick me.

He looks scared, but I don't trust him enough to take his reaction at face valour. I don't trust him at all.

So, I make him tell me the plan and I sucked it up like a dried sponge, because this time, I'm gonna be smarter than him. This time, I'll be the one laughing in the end, because I'm gonna take his plan and I'm gonna make a run for it.

Because he doesn't know that the paper that was so precious for him, the paper that he holding in his hands like it's the Holy Grail ain't the only one that I've done. No, sir, I have an entire notebook filled with the exact same pattern and now that I've remembered it, I can fill a thousand books more.

This time, he will be the one left here, amongst the crazies, while I'll be outside, savouring the fruits of his plan. First thing you learn inside prison is to not trust anybody. I'm crazy but that was a lesson even I got right.

And they call me the crazy one.

I say let them. At least I'll be a free one.

The end.


End file.
